


Dust and Echoes

by orphan_account



Category: Glee, Wing Commander
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-05
Updated: 2012-06-04
Packaged: 2017-11-04 21:28:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/398376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the years following the end of the Kilrathi War, a new enemy emerges.  One man has an idea to stop them...and a new weapon in the form of one Rachel Berry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**_Year 2683 -_ _Scutum-Centaurus Arm_**

**__**Several pairs of eyes kept watch over the myriad screens and radars and gauges as his ship patroled the area.  Not his ship, technically.  He wasn't the captain, just a lieutenant. _Lieutenant commander_ , Saunders reminded himself mentally.  The captain himself was borderline useless, though, so he found himself in charge more often than not.  In fact, the man was probably off cavorting in his personal quarters with a deckhand, yet again.  Saunders heaved a sigh and turned his hazel gaze to one of the many viewports scattered around the bridge.

Space.  Final frontier and all that.  Mankind conquered it eons ago, though the Kilrathi put up a helluva fight.  The Congress had granted the cats a few planets to live on as part of the peace treaty -- with the provision that they never again attack another Terran person or ship -- but even now, he and his crew occasionally found themselves embroiled in border skirmishes.  The Kilrathi ambassador to Earth, at least in the few times Saunders met him, just shrugged his furry shoulders and insisted he had no control over rogue factions.  "Rogue factions, my ass," he muttered as he reached up to drum his fingers against the reinforced glass.  Too heavily armed to be just minor sects.  Had to be backed heavily by someone important.  

Still, at least these patrols were mostly peaceful.  Another couple weeks and it'd be time to dock in at a station, to refuel and re-supply and sleep in a bed not completely encased in metal.  Probably contact the admiral on the sly and either con him into a promotion to captain -- well-deserved at this rate, and maybe he'd get to re-name the piece of scrap -- or a ship transfer.  Anything to bid some kind of farewell to the most inappropriately named vessel in the Space Forces -- the TSC Pink Dagger.  God, how he hated that name and rued the day Admiral Figgins let that fool choose it.

A siren, obnoxious and forboding, shook him from his thoughts and he turned to find the bridge in near complete disarray.  "Report," he yelled over the chaos as he stepped down to join it.

"LC, we've got multiple incoming crafts!" from one of the tech sergeants.  Saunders couldn't remember his name.  "They're locked onto our position and closing fast!"

"Kilrathi?" he asked, leaning over the rader to look for himself.

"Negative.  Our instruments detect no signs of their radioactive signature."  The man looked up at him with worried eyes.  "Orders, sir?"

A deep frown cut across his face as he stared over the readings.   _Not Kilrathi?  What else could possibly be in this sector?  Some new alien race?_  "Did we try hailing them on the comm?"

"Affirmative, sir.  No response."

Saunders swore under his breath.  "Send out a transmission to the closest ships and stations, let them know we're under attack."  He snatched up the bridge's intercom mic.  "All units, to your stations.  Scramble all fighters.  This is not a drill.  This is not a drill!"  His free hand snatched the coat of of another sergeant scurrying nearby.  "You!  Go get the capt--"

A piercing scream interrupted him just millseconds before a blinding light enveloped his senses.  His last, lingering thought -- _Fuck being assigned to Sandy-Goddamn-Ryerson's command._

_  
_

_**Year 2684 - Earth**_

_****__Beep!  Beep!  Beep!_

A hand shot out from beneath the bedcovers to swat at the insidious buzzing, and succeeded at just knocking the clock off the nightstand.  A heavy grumble reverberated as the hand's owner flipped the sheets from his head to look down at the time with half-lidded eyes.   _6 in the damn morning._  "Rachel, your alarm," he mumbled as he rolled over to shake awake his companion.  "Rach--"   _Where the hell'd she go?_

Downstairs, a spritely woman stepped delicately out into the New York winter air.  She sucked in a deep breath and cast a beaming smile to the bustle around her.

_Rachel Berry waits for no alarm._


	2. Schuester

**Year 2684 - Earth, Annapolis**

A dream, painted in broad strokes with midnight hues and filled to brimming with speckles of shine.  A ship, a cruiser, steel hull glinting in the faint flicker of a thousand thousand stars.  An armada before it, all manner of darkets and corvettes and…something strange and unclassified.  Small and speedy like a hummingbird.  Awash with the darkest of reds.  An eruption of light, blinding in the perpetual darkness.

"Torpedo detec--"

"Will!"

His eyes shot open and breath came in gulping heaves.  Sweat caked his brow, slimy to the touch as he reached to wipe it off before fumbling around nearby to find the clock.  A dream.  Only a dream…  His hand slapped onto the sharp corners of his alarm and he hefted it into line of sight with a grunt.  Seven-thirty, the red LEDs blinked at him.  He frowned and punched a button on the side.  Nine, morphed the previous numbers.  What the…?

"Will, honey!"  A woman bounded in from the ensuite bathroom, flailing around some manner of white stick.  She pounced onto the bed, nearly flipping his dead weight off the other side.  "Guess what?!" she asked, eyes wide and flashing.

"Wha--Terri?" he mumbled as he rubbed sleep from his eyes, still trying to shake the lingering remnants from that dream.  "It's so early…"  His still-muddy gaze fixed on the ceiling fan swirling steadily above.  Hypnotic, almost.  That fighter…  Maybe just some made-up thing?

"--nant!  Can you believe it?!  Finally!"

Definitely didn't seem like Kilrath--  He shot up and jerked his head to her.  "Preg…nant?"  

"Yes!"  She thrust the white stick at his face and his eyes crossed to focus on it.  Pink lines.  "Oh, I hope it's a girl…"

Will tuned out the beginnings of what would surely be an endless monologue of baby names and clothes and room decor.  He often found it best to leave that sort of thing to Terri and her sister.   Pregnant…  After months of blue, suddenly he found himself drowning in a sea of pink.    He scrubbed over his face with a hand, sweeping around to rub at the back of his neck.  Pregnant was good.  He'd always wanted a kid, one he could teach the joys of performance like he had back in his heydey.  Maybe that kid would be superstar material and go further with it than Will ever had.  Maybe the world would fall to its knees in worship of his son or daughter's talent.  Maybe…

A hitch in that plan, though.  He glanced back down at the clock, his eyes instead searching for the date huddled in the corner away from the giant LED time.  February…  Stark black lettering flashed before his eyes.  Deployment, March 15th.  Tour of duty expected to last at least one year.  Possibly longer, if Kilrathi rebel forces encountered.  Will groaned and reached back around to scrub at his face again.

"--and Kendra still has a crib and changing table which I'm sure she'd give us--"

"Terri, wait," he grunted, holding up a hand to halt her continued train of thought.  "This isn't…  You know I'm leaving next month."

She met his gaze over his hand, brow furrowing with each word.  "B-But you… You can't!" she shrieked.  "You have to tell Figgins!  Maybe he can assign you to shore…whatever it is!"  She reached with both hands to grab the one he still held up, pregnancy test flopping onto the comforter.  "You can't just…not be here for this!"

He stared at her with the puppy-dog eyes that always ran counter -- yet somehow complimentary -- to her own manic intensity.  Maybe she had the right idea, though.  Maybe the admiral would grant him a desk assignment for at least a year or two.  Maybe he'd have a sudden burst of compassion.

Then again, maybe he'd wake up as a cat tomorrow.  Both things held the same likelihood of occurrence.

"I'll…see what I can do," he said regardless.  He found no harm in at least pitching the idea.  "I'm supposed to report in a few hours anyway."

A slow grin spread across her face as he spoke.  "Oh, this is just the best day!"  She hopped off the bed and out the door, sing-songing the entire way in tone-deaf fashion, "I'll go make you your favorite breakfast, to celebrate!  Ham and spinach omelette, coming right up!"

"Hey, wait…!" he tried to call after her, but the woman could move like a cheetah when motivated.  He reached down and plucked up the white stick.  Harbinger of his destiny, all based on a couple little pink lines.

***

"The admiral will see you now, Will."

He gave a tight-lipped smile at the woman, a secretary of sorts given her tight business attire and wire-frame glasses.  And the plaque perched on the corner of her desk that read 'Secretary'.

"Nervous?" she asked, watching him out of the corner of her eye as she focused mostly on the monitors before her.

"Little bit," he replied before stepping through the oaken doors leading into Admiral Figgins's office.  He cleared his throat as he approached the massive mahogany desk and the man behind it, older and of Pakistani heritage with thick worry lines creasing his forehead, looked up with a smirk.

"Ah, William!" Figgins said with a thick accent as he stood, brushing nonexistent lint from his finely-pressed standard blue uniform.  A large, gleaming silver cross on his collar marked him an admiral, the admiral of the fleet to which Will belonged.  "So good to see you again!  How is the wife?  Terra, was it?"

"Terri, sir, and she's doing well," Will said as he snapped to a salute.  "In fact, she's…kind of why I'm here…"  He trailed off, anxiety creeping onto his nerves.

"Is that so?"  Figgins gestured for Will to take a seat as he flopped back down into his own cushy leather.  "Well, you'll have to tell me all about it!  But first…"  He fluttered through the many stacks of papers adorning his desk, humming off-key as he worked.  

Will sat down and drummed his fingers against his own uniformed legs.  A nervous tic, dating all the way back to high school.  Maybe even earlier.  Figgins is a good man, he repeated endlessly in his head.  He'll understand.  Who wouldn't understand?

"Ah-ha!" Figgins exclaimed a few minutes later, shaking Will from his thoughts.  A blue folder rested in his hand, open as he flipped through the contents within.  "I have some very good news for you today, William."

"Oh, sir?"

"Yes, very good," he said, his eyes grinning at Will over the top edge of the folder.  "Seems we're about to commission another cruiser for my McKinley fleet.  You know of this, yes?"

A new cruiser?  Will furrowed his brow, thinking back across the multitudes of meetings he'd had spanning the last couple months.  Granted, new cruisers were commissioned with some regularity, though the frequency had dropped off some since the end of the war.  Maybe Tanaka had mentioned it in passing?  "I…might have heard something to that effect, sir," he replied.

"Well, regardless, a new cruiser!  Not quite as state-of-the-art as Sue's, mind you, but a new one nevertheless.  And as you know, new cruisers need captains."  Figgins snatched a slip of paper from the folder and flipped it onto the desk in front of Will.  "And I think I know just the man for the job."

Will glanced down, eyes scanning the sheet quickly for pertinent information.  New cruiser…yet unnamed…Commander William Schuester…promotion…captain…  His head jerked up.  "You…I…me, sir?" he asked, stumbling over his words.  "You want to promote me to captain?"

"Yes, William!  Isn't it exciting?"  Figgins clapped his hands together.  "Miss Pillsbury had nothing but great things to say on your psych profile and you've done quite well under Captain Tanaka this past year.  And the best part?  You'll get to name your ship!  Within reason, of course.  Obviously nothing scandalous."

Will stared at the paper, unblinking.  He imagined the printed words as pink in color.  Harbinger of his destiny, part two.  "I…I don't know what to say, sir…" he mumbled, fingers clutching at his pants legs.

"You will say yes, of course!" Figgins said.  "This is the opportunity of a lifetime, William.  I already have dossiers of the crew we'll assign to you, even."  He plucked a small stack of papers from the same folder and placed them next to that other damnable sheet.

Will tore his eyes over to the stack and flitted down it at a speed almost greater than sound.  First dossier on the pile, Ensign Arthur Abrams, deck chief.  Skilled with ship maintenance and repair.  Expert on weapon design.  He shook his head, then looked up at Figgins.  "Can I have a day to think on it, sir?" he asked.  "I…need to talk to my wife."

"Ah yes, of course, William," Figgins said.  "You do as you must, but only a day."

He nodded.  "Thank you, sir, for the consideration."

"I trust you can show yourself out?"

Will stood and saluted, then turned to leave through that same oaken door.  Figgins's secretary paid him no need as he strode past with more confidence than he could even remotely feel at that moment.  He needed a drink before he could possibly tackle that conversation with Terri.  Or at least many, many cups of coffee.

***

His hands jittered as he lifted the paper cup to his lips and took a hearty swig.  Regular black, with just a hint of sugar, though he could taste neither bitter nor sweet.  The besuited lunch crowd swirled around him and baristas bellowed out names and orders and it all melted into a hazy din to the noise in his own head.

A baby, maybe even a son.  Something he'd craved in the years since giving up on his first love, popping into existence at the absolute worst possible time.  He pictured himself cradling his son, humming lullabies to him, dressing him in a dapper vest-and-tie combination.  His eyes watered at the prospect of watching competitions and graduations, of sitting front row for an opening night.

A promotion, to captain of his own ship.  The job opportunity of a lifetime -- for a member of the Navy, anyway.  And yet…it, too, came calling at the worst possible time.  A image sprung to mind of the embossed silver insignia pinned to his uniform as he and his crew fought off Kilrathi incursions and explored the far reaches of the galaxy, of further promotions -- maybe to Commodore, like that Corcoran woman.

"Will!"

He paused, poised mid-air to knock back the rest of his coffee, and glanced up at the voice, soft and lilting.  "E-Emma!  Hey!" he said as he gestured for her to take the seat opposite him, hand shaking slightly.  How…fortuitous, he thought, the sudden appearance of his favorite ginger psych officer in such a time of mental crisis.

"Just how many of those have you had?" she asked as she slipped onto the barely-padded chair.

Will spared a look to his mostly-empty cup and sighed.  "Only my first.  It's been…one of those days."

"Well, I've got…"  Emma trailed off, peeking at her watch.  "Looks like 20 minutes until my next evaluation, so hit me.  I'm all ears."  She gave a half-grin and patted his twitchy hands.

The story tumbled from his lips in spurts and at one point, he had to take a reprieve and order another drink just to give himself a secondary focus.  It struck him midway through just how…whiny…he sounded.  'I'm having a baby and I got a promotion!  My wife and boss both love me!  Life is so hard!'  Trust Emma to absorb every word without reproach, though.  The woman had something of a gift for guidance, at least from what he'd seen.  

"…So I need to give my decision to Figgins by the end of the day," he said, "and I just…I have no idea."  He slurped at the dregs of his second coffee, then nibbled at the plastic lid.

"Well, it sounds like the opportunity of a lifetime."

"That's just it.  They're *both* that opportunity!  I could turn Figgins down and ask for a demotion to shore duty, and that lets me stay here with Terri and our baby."  Will's shoulders shook as he sighed.  "Or I take the captaincy and leave Terri to do this all on her own.  Or worse, with her sister."

Emma drummed her fingertips against her chin, humming in thought.  "Sometimes I wish I'd kept up with those pamphlets…" she murmured.

He remembered reading a few of those.  His favorite -- Say You're Sorry with a Song.  His lips curled into a smile as he remembered just how often he'd deployed the apology tune, even sometimes when he hadn't actually done anything wrong.  In his eyes, anyway.  His current predicament, though, he didn't think could be solved by a handy catchphrase.

"I think," Emma said after several moments pause, "something to consider…  With that promotion comes more money, to give to Terri and your child.  You might not be here in person as much as you like but you could still support her better, financially speaking?"

Will scrubbed a hand across his face and back through his gelled waves as the words sunk in.  She did have a point about the money, but he couldn't see how the additional income would make up for his months-to-years-long deployment across the galaxy.  And with Kendra's influence…  His kid would be the terror of the Confederation before he'd even be able to walk.  Not to mention exactly how massive an episode Terri would have at the idea.

"I don't know," Will murmured, staring down at the pair of empty cups.  "Maybe you're right about that, but Terri'd lose her mind."  He shook his head, then slowly climbed to his feet and plucked the cups from the table.  "I've still got a few hours left in the day," he said to her as he tossed out his trash.  "Gonna think on it some more.  Maybe some fresh air."

"Just remember, Will," Emma called after him.  "The opportunity of a lifetime!"

***

His fingers drummed heavily on the bench's rough planks as he watched children frolic in the park's playground -- divebombing from swings, wrestling each other on the sandy turf, getting tangled up in the rope nets.  He pictured his own kid out there on a future sunny day, and grinned.  At least if he did accept that promotion, he'd be back home in time to see such things…

"Captain!"  A voice broke his thoughts, followed by the wheezing of a young man who'd physically exerted himself far beyond capacity.  "Guess Miss Pillsbury was right about this being your favorite spot to think…" the man huffed under his breath.

Will stared up at him.  Uniformed, so a kid from the Navy.  Isignia indicated an Ensign.  Glasses.  A pile of papers rolled up under his arm.  "Wha-- Who are you?" he finally asked after taking in the man before him.

"Sorry!"  Abrams snapped to a salute.  "Ensign Abrams, sir, and extremely excited about serving under you."

Abrams…  Dossiers flashed before his mind's eye as he recalled just where he'd heard -- or rather, seen -- that name before.  Arthur Abrams, deck chief to be assigned under his command.  Explained why the kid addressed him as Captain, he supposed.

"I'm…  I haven't actually made that decision yet," Will said.  And he only had another hour or two before he would almost certainly get a phone call from Figgins about it, or another from Terri to no doubt harangue him for ignoring all her previous ones.

"You haven't…?  Ah, then with the thinking and all…"  Abrams rubbed at his chin with his free hand.  "I understand, sir, but I think I might have something to help you with that…"  In the blink of an eye, he unfurled the papers he carried and rested them on the bench.

Hand-drawn…something like schematics, Will surmised as his eyes scanned the top sheet.  Seemed like something designed to fit in one of their fighters.  "What is this?" he finally asked, lifting the first to glance through the others in the stack.

"Plans, sir.  Blueprints.  I've been pounding on it nonstop for a couple months now but I think I might have enough of a design to build a prototype."

Will looked up to stare Abrams in the eye.  "A prototype of *what*, Arthur?"

"Artie, sir, and it's a…well, a kind of weapon.  Sorta.  It'd take a while to explain exactly what it does but I know your background and I know you're, well, probably the only captain in this fleet who'd even be interested in pursuing it…"

"My background?"

"Yeah, I mean, I went poking through the Naval database and--"

Will raised his eyebrows.  Kid had some balls, blurting out to a commanding officer such an obvious breach in regulations.  "That's pretty restricted info there, Artie…"

"And…obviously…I stopped at the first 'access denied'!"  Abrams grinned, a bead of sweat slipping from his forehead down underneath the thick, black-framed glasses.

"Okay, remind me later to sign you up for a protocol refresher…  So this weapon, what makes it so special?"

"Well, the key is right here…"  Abrams leaned over and flipped back three sheets, then tapped the fourth.

Will stared the paper.  Looked to be a microphone of some kind, attached to whatever the rest of Abrams's design was.  And a crude stick figure sketch of…someone talking into it?  "That's…?"

"Exactly what it looks like.  We could revolutionize the entire Navy, everything from recruitment to combat with this!"

Will's eyes hazed over as he sunk into thought.  Revolutionize the Navy…  And with what Abrams was proposing…

The opportunity of a lifetime.

***

Next time on 'Dust and Echoes'…

… "You do understand that you're fighting an uphill battle here, right?" …

… "Finn, haven't you ever wanted something so badly that you'll do anything and everything in your power to get it?" …

… "Ladies and gentlemen -- our favorite, your favorite, the songbird herself… Miss Rachel Berry!" …


End file.
